


Baby Seller

by angry_eevee



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Backstory, Orzammar, Prostitution, caste system
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 08:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4912207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angry_eevee/pseuds/angry_eevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You sold what?”</p><p>Josephine set her quill down on the desk, mouth slightly open in horror. The pleasant faced, matronly dwarf before her raised an overly plucked eyebrow, then took a pull from her pipe and blew a leisurely smoke ring before answering.</p><p>“Babies, darlin’. I sold babies.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“ _You sold **what?**_ ”

Josephine set her quill down on the desk, mouth slightly open in horror. The pleasant faced, matronly dwarf before her raised an overly plucked eyebrow, then took a pull from her pipe and blew a leisurely smoke ring before answering.

“Babies, darlin’. I sold babies.”

It was meant to be nothing more than a little non-controversial ice-breaking, a way to get a sense of the person behind the overwhelming title of Herald. Josephine had already done her background reading, and knew Frygg Cadash had married into the somewhat notorious Carta family after leaving Orzammar five years ago, but had been unable to find out anything about her life within the dwarven city. Perhaps with good reason, Josephine thought, while desperately trying to reset her face into a practiced, friendly blank. The diamond sharp eyes across the table narrowed slightly in concern, heavily lacquered lashes almost obscuring the milky blue irises in a forest of dense black bristles.

“You alright there, ducklin’? You look like you swallowed deepstalker leavin’s thinkin’ they were raisins.”  

Josephine took a breath, folding and refolding her hands in her lap, running through at least twenty politically sound responses in her mind. However, all that came out was:

“Sold babies.”

“Aye, that’s it.”

“For money.”

“Well, I wasn’t sellin’ ‘em for nug scratchings now was I?”

Josephine removed a delicate silk handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed lightly at her forehead, the room suddenly hot despite Haven’s persistent chill winds.

“I think… perhaps you are going to have to elaborate.”

Frygg smiled, like a mother towards a particularly slow child, and began to explain.

Within the Orzammar caste system, a child was born into the caste of the parent of the same gender. This legal loophole predictably lead to casteless women attempting to improve their lot in life by finding a man of higher caste to father a son with them, securing them and their baby life away from Dust Town.

“So a son’s the aim, y’see? That’s a ticket out of the slums. And if there is a son, all well and good. But what if it’s a daughter, ducklin’? What do you think happens then?”

“I assume they’d try again…?”

“What? No, darlin’, no upstandin’ man wants a casteless wife AND daughter to feed. No, if there’s no son, usually the poor gel’s thrown back to Dust Town.” Frygg blew another smoke ring and settled more comfortably in her chair. “If he really likes her, he might persuade her to leave the poor little girl on the streets to die, but not many ladies go for that sort of thing, you understand.”

“But that’s barbaric.” Josephine’s voice was almost a whisper.

“That’s dwarves for you, dear. Now, this is where my special services come in.”

Frygg explained the arrangement. A girl with hopes of marrying up would come to her and enter a contract. Frygg would then promote the girl at public events, loaning her clothes and cosmetics to better attract a potential spouse. Once the girl made a match, a tithe of courting gifts would go to Frygg, and her involvement would halt until the moment of birth.

“This is where it gets a bit complicated, love. Once the gel was ready to pop, I’d have one of my _special_ midwifes, wonderful ladies raised and trained by me, to oversee the birth. Babies are a woman’s business, the men don’t get involved until the little one starts talkin’ as a rule. If it was a boy natural like, all’s well and the happy mother would pay off her contract with me over the next few years. Once she paid in full, I was out of her life, though many of my ducklin’s kept in touch, the sweeties. But if she was blessed with a girl, that’s when we made a switch.”

“A... switch?”

“Mm.” Frygg nodded, glass stones sparkling in her elaborate hairstyle. “We’d take the little girl away and bring in a boy. Slap a bit of blood on a baby and a man’d have no idea his supposed newborn was actually a month or so old. Good thing we’re a small race, eh? Where did we find a boy, you ask? You don’t need to ask, darlin’, your horrified expression is talkin’ loud enough. Don’t worry, we weren’t pinchin’ kiddies. The little one would come from one of a few places. Mostly from m’own “ladies of negotiable affection”, nice workin’ girls who didn’t want the fuss of havin’ a tiddler…”

“You ran a _brothel_?” Josephine could not quell the rising panic in her voice, already dreading having to explain this walking publicity nightmare in bright lipstick to an already suspicious public.   

“I did, a logical side-line business considerin’. And before you pull that face, let me tell you straight ; I treated my girls well, much better than most other flesh-peddlers. I didn’t keep them on a drug-drip, didn’t hit ‘em, and they could leave any time they liked, and a lot didn’t want to, missy. If they wanted to marry up, they got the same service cheaper dependin’ on how long they’d worked for me. They got to keep most of their earnin’s plus a bonus if they produced a boy child. The House would look after any girl children, we all raised ‘em like a family, and a happy one too, probably because there were no menfolk to spoil it. The saddest thing about leavin’ Orzammar was havin’ to leave my girls.” Another sweet smelling smoke-ring engulfed Josephine, but at this point she was too enthralled to cough politely.

“And the other… source?”

“From out-of-marriage ruttin’ darlin’.” Frygg chuckled. “Say a nice Noble caste lady had been foolin’ around with that dashin’ Smith caste man who fits her husband’s ceremonial armor. Often they’d carry on like it were legitimate, but oft times the lady would be worried about the babe not lookin’ enough like his supposed father. That’s when she’d contact me and my lovely, _discrete,_ midwifes and we’d have the poor tyke declared “dead at birth.” A sad time for the family, a reminder to the lady to remember to take her preventatives if she wants to be foolin’ around, and a gamble: If it’s a girl child, she’d pay us, and pay us well, enough to ensure the little lass would grow up well in my House with enough t’eat. If it was a boy, we’d pay her. A little spendin’ money, that I stressed a small amount should go on preventative herbs,” Frygg smiled, bright lips stretched thinly. “Especially since I owned quite a large share of the preventatives market. Can’t turn my nose up at my own makin’, can I?”

“Quite…” Josephine murmured, hand resting lightly on her cheek.

“Otherwise there was orphans, little ones who’s mam’s died givin’ birth to or their family couldn’t afford to keep. We’d pay the family for ‘em. This way, everyone who wants a baby, gets a baby. Those who don’t, don’t.  Nice and neat all round. The only ones my business pissed on were the Shaperate, ‘cos of “muddying bloodlines”, but who gives a bronto’s tonker about those dusty old sods.” Frygg smiled again and leaned back in her chair, refilling her ornate pipe. Josephine stared at her for a few moments before she finally found her voice.

“So... why did you leave? Did the Shaperate catch you?” She mentally scolded herself for the note of excitement in her voice.

“Aye, I was sold out by one of my medical girls. Don’t know what was in it for her, didn’t care to find out. I had enough time to have one of my best girls take charge of the House before it was the Surface or the Quick Chop for me.” The dwarf sighed and lit her pipe. “Made a short livin’ on the Surface as a barmaid for a bit, before I met my Farrim. Sweet lad, we were only married a few months before he got himself shanked in a tizzy with a rival smugglin’ company.” Another smoke ring, this time hovering a foot above the surface of Josephine’s desk for a few seconds before dissipating. “Such is life, ducklin’. But I was a Cadash now, and I had a good head for business, so I did well. They sent me to the conclave because I’m good at fittin’ in. No one would expect a lady as obvious lookin’ as me to _actually_ be involved in shady business now would they? Well, that all went arse over tit, as you know.” She gestured out of the window to the Breach with the stem of her pipe.

“And now, ducklin’, I think we’d better get back to figurin’ out how to achieve the proper alignment of arse and tit before more of the sods get through and people start getting’ eaten, aye?” Frygg stood up, and gave Josephine a warm smile that she returned in a slightly stunned manner. As the dwarf turned, a creak of whalebone betraying corsetry under strain and a glint of steel on her hip suggesting a concealed knife, Josephine wondered if any other diplomat in history had faced a challenge like Frygg Cadash. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Skyhold was growing stronger and safer every day. Good thing too, Frygg considered, as she reached for her tankard and her half-healed ribs protested. She was impressed at how fast a tavern had been established, but not surprised. Get enough scared, lost people in one place and someone, without fail, will tap a cask and start charging.   
She took a long pull of her ale, inappropriate orange-red lipstick leaving a scandalous crescent on the lip, and tilted her head towards Sera, who was swaying slightly.

“And what happened then, ducklin’?”

“Then, right, our Comte de Ballache la Arsehole said,” here Sera adopted a horrible and overblown Orlesian accent, “‘My pantaloons! Someone ‘as put WEASLES in my most delicate of cupboards and zey ‘ave made ‘OLES in… in…” Sera choked with laughter, then choked again on the mouthful of drink she’d taken in the pause, ale spluttering out of her nostrils. She adopted a harsh but carrying whisper, “’In ze CROTCHES!’” More laughter, more projectile nasal alcohol, “Crotches, right? Because I’d put gravy on all the CROTCHES!” Sera dissolved into a fit of giggles, laying her head on the table and stamping a foot. Frygg laughed too, rich and earthy, and stroked the back of Sera’s head fondly. When the elf had finally taken some steadying breaths and resurfaced, Frygg stood up slowly, wincing at the pain in the side she had fallen on in her standoff with Corypheus. She held out a hand, fingers heavy with flashy costume rings.

“Come along, my sweet, the tavern’s nearly empty, the barman’s givin’ us the stinkeye, and it’s time to get you settled.” She waved away the slurred protests and put a steadying hand on Sera’s hip as she steered the girl upstairs. She entered the odd little corner room Sera had claimed and sat her down, Sera staying upright on the second attempt. The elf smiled toothily at her.

“You’re right nice, you. Not scary at all. AND you hate nobles, yeah? I mean your whole business was tricking them and getting the little people out of shit, right? You’re basically a Jenny already.” Frygg grinned, a smear of lipstick on her teeth.

“That’s exactly right, duck. Now, can you get your boots off, or do you want a hand?”

“Haha! Hand! ‘cos, ‘cos of your hand, right? Glowing green and shit…” Sera slumped sideways onto the brightly coloured cushions. Frygg began unlacing Sera’s boots while the elf giggled to herself.

“Your name’s Frygg, and your ‘friggin’’ brilliant… how good is that?” Frygg pulled a blanket from under a few empty bottles and some miscast arrowheads and tucked it around Sera.

“There we go my pet, comfy?”

“Yeah.” Sera blinked sleepily. “Right nice, you are. I didn’t know my mum, but you’re like mums are supposed to be. In stories and shite.” Sera closed her eyes as Frygg stroked her hair softly. “Everyone says dwarves are greedy and bollocks, but you’re not. Like that Warden, Brascar, Borscor… whatever her frickin’ name was. She… did stuff? That helped. Yeah, helpful stuff.” Frygg’s hand paused, claw-long and highly varnished fingernails resting lightly on the elf’s scalp.

“Brosca?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Didn’t really get what was happening at the time, I was still playing with small painted boxes and burying things I found. You know the best thing though?” Sera propped herself up on an unsteady elbow. “I heard our spymaster, Icequeen Ravenlady, was boinking the Warden!” She fell back onto the cushions, dirty laughter rippling around the room.  Frygg smiled warmly, but a rippling of muscle in her jaw betrayed a focus that was lost on Sera as she gathered the blanket around herself and rolled onto her back. Frygg brushed the haphazard fringe from the elf’s eyes.

“Best get some kip now, my duck. Sleep well.”

As Frygg left the tavern she took a small mirror from the copious folds of her garments. In the lamplight she rubbed a thumb across her teeth, removing the lipstick she had ensured remained there while visiting the tavern.

It was time to talk to the Spymaster about one of her girls.             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the encouragement to write more Frygg, I didn't expect her to be interesting to anyone but me. The conversation with Leli is planned but not written, but will be soon.

**Author's Note:**

> (Sorry for the double post! I didn't delete your comments, just the wrong version!)


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